


Synchronicity

by AvaKelly



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Tower, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint is a mess, Comfort, Home, James needs a hug, M/M, Nightmares, Oblivious, Pining, Sleeping Together, alien tech, avengers are avenging, bed sharing, james gives more hugs than he receives, magnets on bucky's arm, recovery a lil bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James ends up berating himself internally while the meals get ready. He can't stomach any food right now, so he leans onto the counter with his coffee while everyone else eats.</p><p>That's when Clint stumbles in, eyes half closed and hair in disarray. He's wearing one of James' hoodies, the one Tony's given him as a joke, that says Cyborg on the front and Murderous Kitten on the back, but is surprisingly soft.</p><p>OR: the one where Clint falls asleep everywhere and James takes it upon himself to carry him to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synchronicity

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. *big grin*  
> As usual, I'm posting way late, waa-ha-ha-y after midnight, and the story is not beta'd so let me know if mistakes pop up.
> 
> This is inspired by [this post](http://lethally-deadly.tumblr.com/post/131435105340/johnystorm-i-remember-once-talking-to-someone).
> 
> I thrive on comments.

It's roughly two months since he'd let Steve and Sam catch up to him when they get a call. Something is loose in New York and it's been disturbing local businesses, breaking into stores, smashing appliances to pieces, rotting out produce, shredding clothing. It's mostly the small places that are getting the brunt of the damage. They are being contacted, by email usually, being asked for money, or gruesome favors, and there's no way a respected caterer would slip poison into their food, or a mechanic would tamper with brake lines. The requests vary in danger and threat, but after they're being refused, destruction follows. The local law enforcement have been hitting dead ends after dead ends, but after a piece of tech has been found and sent to Stark for analysis, it's been obvious they weren't dealing with run of the mill criminals. This was something that called for an out of the box approach. It's why Stark's called the Avengers to New York.

A week later, they aren't anywhere near finding the culprits, or uncovering their methods. Somehow, they always manage to get to scenes seconds after the fact, and Bruce has started theorizing about alternate types of transportation.

James is just happy Tony's building is large enough that they aren't cramped together while trying to solve this. In the meantime, he's gotten to tentatively know the rest of the team. There's Howard's kid, all grown up, a lot more bitter than his pop, but a lot more settled, too. James thinks it's Pepper's doing. Then there's Bruce, the man with about as many issues as James, albeit different ones altogether. Natasha is just as scary up close as Steve has described her, but that's her way of being friendly. He hasn't met Thor, the god of thunder yet. And then... there's this.

With raised eyebrows, James stares at a sleeping Hawkeye, curled up on the one sofa in Tony's massive living room that covers all the exists. Clint, his name is Clint, James reminds himself, trying to figure out if he can still squeeze in next to him and get away with it. He lets out a sigh, probably not. The sofa is more of a love seat, really, barely enough room for two. He gives up and moves to sit next to Natasha. It's strange, though, how nobody pays any mind to how Clint sleeps through the entire movie they're watching.

James hasn't really interacted with Clint these past few days, the sniper quite elusive, except for briefings. There have been signs of him, pointed out by Steve mostly, a coffee cup here, leftover pizza there, a broken arrow embedded in the ceiling. James hasn't been out with them to locations yet, either, and he spends most of his time poking through Tony's online library or staring at the wall of evidence they're set up in one of the conference rooms. He's been trying to find a pattern, but he's been unsuccessful so far.

The next time James stumbles upon Clint, the man is slumped over the kitchen counter, fast asleep, a trace of drool pooling at the corner of his half open mouth on the surface of the wood. Steve comes in then, starts puttering around to make dinner, and why the hell are they eating Steve's cooking, he's fucking awful at it. But Steve moves around Clint expertly and without disturbing his sleep. James starts helping with the cooking.

They get another call a few days later and this time James goes out with Steve and Natasha. They come back empty handed, as usual. Steve's frustrated, and James gets it, he's feeling it as well, so when Steve suggests the gym, he's happy to join in.

Clint has somehow managed to fall asleep on the mat of a treadmill, and James gapes for long moments at Steve who just goes about his routine without batting an eye. James is a little envious of how Clint can just rest like that, when James can barely sleep for two hours straight without waking up gasping.

When he asks about it, he gets shrugs and variations of "he does it all the time, we're used to it."

~

James breathes in deeply, trying to shake away the image of the cryo chamber door closing in front of him. He's sitting on his bed, sheets pooled around him, and his entire frame trembles with the memory of frost for long minutes before he's able to move.

He walks to the kitchen, fingers trailing on the walls, feeling their textures from beneath the too long sleeves of his oversized sweatshirt. It grounds him in reality, along with the sounds of his bare feet on the tiles, noise that he makes on purpose, because he can. A glass of water, and he shuffles into the living room, in search of something to fill his time. That's when he notices Clint, wedged between the wall and a sofa.

James looks around, but no one is there. How can they all let Clint sleep wherever? Right now, the position he's in looks extremely uncomfortable, legs bent, arms askew, and chin resting against his chest. He's going to have a sore neck tomorrow. With a scratch of his head, James sighs before approaching.

Carefully, very slowly, he picks Clint up, who stirs, but doesn't wake. He's already in the hallway when he realizes he doesn't know which one is Clint's room, so James walks toward his own. He's not getting any more sleep tonight, might as well give the bed to someone who needs it.

Around five, he goes for a long run around the tower, and when he returns, he finds Clint in the kitchen, sipping coffee directly from the pot. He's leaning against the counter, eyes closed, not looking very rested despite the fact that he sleeps all the time, everywhere.

James raises a hand in hello when Clint slowly lifts an eyelid, and that earns him a cup of coffee.

"Thanks," he says, taking a seat at the breakfast counter across the room.

Outside, the sky is barely lighting up with the coming dawn and James gets lost in thought, chasing slippery memories of watching the sky from Brooklyn rooftops and talking about the future with childish glee.

A metallic clink catches James' attention and he looks at his left arm to find a purple arrow attached to it. It's no longer than his thumb, and when he pulls, it comes off easily to reveal the magnet underneath. He looks up then, to Clint watching him from across the room with a small grin on his face. James' hasn't heard him move. Well, Clint is an assassin that's Natasha's partner after all, it's to be expected he's capable of stealth. He raises an eyebrow, lifting the arrow in front of him.

"Just wanted to see if it sticks," Clint shrugs, comes closer. He pulls something from his pocket, and a succession of more clinks later, James' arm is adorned with an array of pink and purple flowers. "Yep, it sticks," Clint chuckles.

James scowls at him.

"Aw, come on," Clint returns, poking at the metal, "where's your sense of humor?"

His sense of humor... is somewhere stuck in his dry throat. Clint's easiness about the arm is throwing him off, because so far not even Steve has been ok with it. Steve eyes it with pained sadness, Sam with wariness, Natasha treats it like a threat, Bruce ignores it completely, and Tony wants to take it apart. This is new. Feels better.

James licks his lips, rubs them against each other.

"I only wear pink on Wednesdays," he says, not bothering to hide the smirk.

Clint laughs, smacks at his shoulder. His metal shoulder. For some reason, it feels more like a part of himself like this.

"I don't think we've officially been introduced. I'm Clint."

"James," he offers.

He ends up wearing the magnets for the rest of the day, shrugging when asked about it, to Tony's chagrin. Clint secretly snickers about it where only James can see him.

~

The next day, three calls come in, minutes apart. Steve and Sam take one, Tony and Natasha another, while Bruce monitors from a distance. James gets Clint, and it's actually a fun stake out, the man's constant banter is gold, even though his puns are awful.

James and Clint's location is a law firm specializing in pro bono work, but its offices are on an upper floor in a tall building downtown. After making sure the employees have evacuated the premises, they each take a neighboring roof, settle in for surveillance. They manage to get a recording of a brief shadowy movement, and that's only because Clint dangles himself off the roof. Fucking idiot, he's going to get himself killed if he keeps doing that, and, according to Steve, Clint's quite prone to that sort of recklessness.

~

"Really?" James asks, waving a hand over Clint's sleeping form, curled up on the coffee table.

Steve looks up with a frown and Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"You're not gonna do anything, just let him sleep here," James adds.

"It's his thing," Tony says as he walks by, passes beer bottles around.

James sighs and picks Clint up. He still doesn't know where Clint's bedroom is.

~

It happens four more times before it occurs to James to just ask someone, JARVIS being the easiest choice, which room is Clint's.

He doesn't.

~

James sits down on the edge of the mattress as he pulls the covers tighter around Clint, and Clint unwinds his muscles briefly before curling up closer, a soft sigh on his lips. James' fingers find their way in Clint's hair, pushing the soft strands from his forehead. He hasn't even been aware he's been doing it until, after a few minutes already pass, Clint rubs his cheek against James' palm. James resists the reflex of pulling his hand away. Instead, he pets the back of Clint's head properly, watches him grow more and more relaxed in slumber.

It's soothing, the rhythm of motions in tune with Clint's breathing, and James lets himself focus on it.

An hour later, he feels more clear headed and rested, even though he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep the previous night either.

~

The next morning, Clint yawns with a stretch as he shuffles into the kitchen.

"Got a good rest there, Barton?" Natasha asks, amused smile on her face.

Another yawn comes from Clint, this time even wider. James stifles one of his own behind his palm.

"It's so good to sleep on a real mattress," Clint mumbles, beelining to the coffee maker. "Aw, coffee, where'd you go?" he asks the empty pot. Only then does he look around at the various degrees of sleepiness the rest of the team displays.

James realizes they've never been all in the same room at once before today. It's weird, but in a good way, perhaps a little bit like home.

Not five seconds later, Clint is engaged in a tug of war with Tony, who's herding two mugs in front of him. James rolls his eyes, but gets up to start a new pot. Children. Natasha eyes him with interest when he sits back down and he raises an eyebrow at her.

"Is there any progress on how they're getting away?" Steve asks, shoving half a slice of toast in his mouth.

Yeah, if Steve's that sloppy with food, he's really comfortable around these people. It makes James smile at how the commandos used to eat like every meal was their last. Well.

Bruce taps his pen on the pile of papers next to his plate. "Not much. We're sure they're using some Chitauri tech that's probably been left over from the battle."

Across from him, Sam groans, pushing his eggs around with his fork.

"Can we track the tech?" Natasha asks.

"Working on it," Bruce says pressing his lips together. It sounds like a slow process.

"It's been two months already, I wanna go home," Sam mumbles.

A beat, and everyone turns to look at him. Even Tony and Clint have stopped their bickering. Silence descends while Sam eyes them all wearily.

"This is home."

And now everyone is looking at James. He hasn't realized he'd said it out loud, but it feels true to the core.

Steve gives him a small smile before the beeping of the coffee maker disrupts the quiet. It propels Clint toward it with a cackle.

"Baby! I've missed you!"

"We still don't have a clue as to how they're entering and exiting," Bruce says over Clint's crooning toward the coffee pot. "Short of teleporting, there's no explanation. No damage is done to windows or doors, no sign of forced entry."

Clint moans loudly as he sips, follows with an 'ouch' when the hot liquid burns his tongue. Tony opens his mouth to comment, but Natasha punches him in the arm.

"We're taking some measuring equipment to a couple of sites later," Tony says, glaring at Natasha and rubbing his arm. "See if the techs missed anything."

"All right," Steve nods. "We're gonna go through the photos again."

"I'll reach out to contacts again," Natasha offers. "Clint, wanna come with?"

Clint mumbles something in the affirmative while blowing into the pot, and James is strangely disappointed that Clint's not staying behind. Huh. He's distracted by the movements overtaking the kitchen, as everyone shifts to place plates in the sink with more chatter about their schedules.

"Wait," Clint chimes from where he's still leaning against the counter, "did you say teleport? I think someone's teleporting me to bed."

Natasha snorts at that, and Tony cackles loudly, but is dragged away by Bruce before he can comment further. James clears his throat, but thankfully nobody notices amongst the shuffle.

"Aw, where's my breakfast," Clint mutters, looking around at the empty kitchen.

It's just him and James left. Clint looks a little like a kicked puppy from where he's hugging the pot to his chest, and James can't help himself. He pulls out a couple of eggs, starts to scramble them.

By the time he's finished, Clint has gradually slid over next to him. James only notices how close he is when Clint hooks his chin on James' shoulder.

"I love you, eggs," Clint says and rubs his cheek sleepily on James' hoodie.

He's been too close to the stove, that's why his face is burning. Thankfully, Clint doesn't notice, too absorbed by inhaling the food after James directs him to sit down.

~

He hasn't seen Clint since that morning and it's been two and a half days already. James hasn't been looking, he's just been... all right, he's been looking, but since no call has come about another threat, the Avengers have been milling about the tower, doing their own things. James makes another fruitless sweep of the residential areas, but without venturing to the lower floors, he can't do much else. And he doesn't really want to stumble onto strangers today.

The evening finds him tucked in the corner of a rafter above the shooting range, and he looks out at the city's skyline through the high windows, watches the sun go down, indoor lights coming on in the surrounding buildings. He tries not to think of anything, especially Clint. James can't figure out what is it about the archer that's drawing his thoughts toward him.

Voices echo from the hallway before one of the doors opens. Clint and Sam make their way in, engaged in light conversation about the merits of bows. Clint is adamant to introduce Sam to archery, and he proceeds to pull out arrows, bows, and gear from one of the lockers lining the far wall. James stills in his spot. He's sitting across from the targets, at the end of the long room, behind Clint and Sam, and he doesn't want to give himself away. His guts tells him this is something he should witness.

They're having a good time, and Clint laughs with Sam as they shoot over and over. Sam is clumsy but cheery about it. Huh, James should try it, looks fun. Maybe... maybe he can ask Clint to teach him?

"Sorry you're stuck with us," Clint says after Sam calls it a night, taking a sip of his water bottle.

Sam looks pensively for a few moments, but then his face splits into a wide grin. "Nah, man. James was right, this is home. Kinda got used to your superhero asses already."

"You'd miss us too much, isn't it?" Clint turns a pleased little smile and James finds himself scowling. What is wrong with him...

"Maybe," Sam laughs, shaking his head. "Gonna head to bed," he adds with a thumb over his shoulder. "Coming?"

"In a bit," Clint says, "I'll clean up here first."

Sam offers to help, but Clint waves him off. James takes a deep breath, ready to jump down, but instead of packing the bows, Clint picks his up again, lines another shot. The air gets stuck in James' throat, because what is Clint doing? He's been drawing for over two hours already with Sam, isn't that enough?

But Clint continues. And when he runs out of arrows, he grabs another quiver from the locker, moves to the next lane. Again, and again, he draws and releases, breaths growing more and more irregular. It must be another two hours when an arrow leaves Clint's bow so weakly that it clanks to the floor before reaching the halfway mark on the lane.

Shaking all over, Clint leans heavily onto the table in front of him, and James' heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. This is wrong, so very wrong, but something tells James he needs to see this, so he keeps silent and still. Swaying on his feet, Clint looks around as if searching for something in particular. A moment later, he stumbles toward the pile of rolled up mats in a corner, and collapses on them. Really? There? The floor would be more comfortable than that.

Clint's out like a light, but it doesn't look like he's fallen asleep. It's more like he's passed out, and it hurts James. He swallows painfully against the lump in his throat, and waits for a few minutes before making his way down silently. He's pretty sure this is not something Clint would want to have been witnessed.

He can't help himself though, from caressing the side of Clint's face. Unexpectedly, Clint's tense frame relaxes minutely, and James doesn't hesitate to pick him up again.

Just like the previous time, he deposits Clint in his bed, and starts unfastening his glove and arm guard. He places them on the nightstand, takes Clint's shoes off as well, and turns back to pull up the covers. Instead, he presses a kiss to Clint's forehead.

That's when Clint's eyelids flutter open, but quickly close again against the light of the lamp.

James gets ready to explain, even though his throat is dry and he has no plausible reason for why he's done this, but Clint's trembling hands grab at him, pull him closer.

"C'mere," he mumbles.

He pulls at James, and his fingers are gripping a little too tightly for how utterly exhausted he is. James goes easily, though, taken aback, and finds himself with an armful of sleeping archer. Clint sighs contentedly against his chest, burrowing closer, and James wraps his arms around him.

It takes him long minutes to calm his rapidly beating heart, nose pushed in Clint's hair, but in the end he relaxes as well. He kicks away his own sneakers and turns the light off without dislodging Clint. His breathing is steady and it soon draws James under. He barely spares one fleeting thought on the possibility of waking from his usual nightmares, and it tells to how much Clint's presence calms him.

~

A child cries on the blood stained floor, asking him to stop, to not do it, but the Soldier still puts a bullet through the mother's head.

James' eyes snap open, and the image of the dream dissipates. The sound is still there, soft cries and mumbled pleads. James' body tightens, because if the mission is over, the frost follows and he doesn't want to go back in there.

Something shifts against him, something warm, and James blinks against the darkness. Clint is there. Clint is real, he tells himself, as he squeezes tighter, chases the sensations to draw himself back into reality. The crying doesn't stop, though, it gets worse, and James shakes with it, because this has never happened before. Maybe he's losing it, after all.

But wait. It's real, the sounds are real, and it's Clint sniffling in his arms. Broken half words are spilling from his lips, and he sounds like he's pleading for something. He's not pushing away, however, he's curling up closer against James. It stings, behind his eyelids, and James runs his hand through Clint's hair, shushes him.

"You're safe," he rasps, because it seems like Clint is shying away from something in his nightmare. "Everything's ok, it's fine," and he tightens his grip. "I'm here," he adds.

Why he says that, it's beyond him. It's not like Clint can comprehend it, not like James can reach into the dream and protect Clint, no matter how much he wants to.

But it still affects Clint, and the constant trembling of his tense frame suddenly drains out. A shuddering sob follows, and Clint cries, almost screams, with his face pressed into James' chest. All James can do it hold him, croon softly, whisper nonsense that not even James understands anymore.

The vibrations of the sounds travel along James' ribs and it hurts.

It takes Clint almost an hour to quiet down, and he's still asleep, has been through it all. James keeps hurting, as he sifts his fingers through Clint's hair, lips pressed against his temple, the wetness of his cheeks mixing with the sweaty sheen on Clint's forehead.

~

Soon, dawn lights up the horizon, and James draws a deep breath before slipping out of Clint's lax grip. A shower later - and the cool water has felt good on his heated skin - he makes his way toward the kitchen.

Natasha and Steve are there, sitting opposite each other at the breakfast counter, cups of coffee between them. One look at James, and their eyes fill with understanding.

"You slept with Clint, haven't you?" Natasha asks quietly.

James nods, still wrecked by the events of the night.

With a long exhale, Steve raises, brings another mug for James, waves him over.

"After the Chitauri attack," Steve says as James takes a seat, "we've all lived here for about half a year. We've all seen it." He looks down into his coffee and James grimaces.

"We tried helping, but he won't even say what he dreams about," Natasha adds and James scowls at her. How could that be enough? "We pushed," she continues with a roll of her eyes, "so much that he disappeared for three weeks because of it."

"Now we just let him do what he does," Steve says, pained, and the sadness is palpable in his voice.

"Which is what exactly?" James asks, frown still firmly in place.

Natasha leans her forehead on her palms and Steve stares in his coffee for long moments.

"He's exhausting himself," Steve finally whispers, "then finds the most uncomfortable place where he can pass out. That way, the pain will wake him before the nightmares start. It's rare that he gets a good rest in a bed. Every time you see him out for the count are usually the only times he's sleeping."

He sounds guilt ridden and helpless, and James' shoulders slump. He reaches out, squeezes Steve's hand, gets a bitter smile in return. It doesn't alleviate the hurt James feels for Clint. At least his own nightmares are allowing him some semblance of rest. The serum he'd gotten also keeps him alert. But Clint doesn't have the luxury of enhancement, he must be incredibly tired.

"It's been almost two years since the aliens," James realizes.

Steve had told him all about that. About Hawkeye and the god that took over his mind and his will. It had made James feel like he hadn't been the only one screwed over and forced to kill without a choice. Is this why he is so protective of Clint? No, it's not, otherwise he'd have felt so before he'd met the guy.

"Yeah," Natasha says before drinking from her mug.

Whatever else she's about to add is interrupted by Tony and Pepper. Sam, then Bruce make their way into the kitchen a while later and James moves to help Steve with breakfast.

He feels stupid. Really fucking stupid. Here he was, wishing he could sleep like Clint did, when in reality it has escaped his notice what Clint's actually been doing.

He doesn't sleep well in a bed. Fuck! James has been carrying him away, trying to make him comfortable, but instead... He thinks back to that first morning after he's brought Clint to his room, when he's gotten the magnets that he's still keeping safely in a drawer.

Clint had looked so... oh.

James ends up berating himself internally while the meals get ready. He can't stomach any food right now, so he leans onto the counter with his coffee while everyone else eats.

That's when Clint stumbles in, eyes half closed and hair in disarray. He's wearing one of James' hoodies, the one Tony's given him as a joke, that says Cyborg on the front and Murderous Kitten on the back, but is surprisingly soft.

James extends the mug he's holding and Clint beelines to him. He wraps both hands around it, leans sideway against James' front with a grunt.

Silence descends while everyone looks at Clint with various degrees of interest.

"Steve," Clint rasps, "can we keep him?"

He tilts even more heavily into James, head lolling onto James' shoulder, and it's purely by reflex that James catches the mug of coffee that drops from his lax fingers, while his metal arm wraps around Clint's middle to hold him up. He quickly sets the coffee down, checks Clint's pulse and his breathing.

"He's asleep," he tells the room, and a sigh of relief follows from Steve.

Tony opens his mouth then, and if he makes another crude joke about this, James swears he's going to dent the crotch of each one of his suits. But Tony just looks small and lost, his mouth moving without sound. His eyes flutter in Pepper's direction and oh, James gets it. Tony hasn't escaped the grasp of night terrors himself. James guesses none of them have. But what Tony's saying, by turning a pleading look James' way, is to try and help Clint like Pepper's helping him. James nods at him, and Tony rolls his eyes to hide his obvious embarrassment. The Avengers are children, all of them.

Natasha's eyebrows are raised in surprise, but she tips her chin at him, while a smile blooms on Steve's face. James huffs at that.

He lifts Clint up, and Clint sighs softly, pressing his face against James' shoulder. Steve hurries to open the door for them, and he's already a couple of steps away when he hears Sam's voice.

"What just happened?"

~

James returns Clint to bed, curls around him and doesn't remember drifting off.

When he opens his eyes next, the sky is almost dark outside. Clint is still there, on his back under the weight of James' flesh arm, and he looks away when he notices James awake. It's as if he's waiting for the inevitable interrogation. James isn't inclined to push Clint any more than he is inclined to answer this sort of questions himself. He gets it.

So he wiggles closer, tightens his grip around Clint and exhales deeply. This is almost too comfortable.

"You owe me breakfast," he says, closing his eyes.

He feels Clint move his head, most likely to look at James. "It's evening."

"Then make it in the morning. Go back to sleep," he adds, because he feels himself slide under again, and he wants to keep Clint there.

There's a long moment of silence before Clint shifts and James is reluctant to let him go. But Clint turns in his grasp, presses his back against James' chest. James doesn't bother stop the smile that pulls at his lips, presses it against the back of Clint's head as slumber overtakes him again.

~

They awake just before dawn, disoriented and mellow. James suggests a run, Clint joins in. His cooking, though, is worse than Steve's, and James bans him from using the stove after he almost sets his sleeve on fire.

~

Clint falls into the habit of coming to James when he needs sleep. At first, it's once every other day, but it soon turns into most evenings. He either leans into James, lets himself be caught, or falls asleep somewhere near James. It's quite a lot of trust to be given, James realizes, and it makes his heart rabbit in his chest.

His nightmares lessen, though, and so do Clint's. As they get rarer, James finds himself looking forward to sharing his bed with Clint, while Clint's clothes migrate slowly into his room. Nobody says anything of it, though.

Another month passes like this, and they are only marginally closer to solving the string of attacks that keep rattling the city.

~

One evening, Clint stumbles sleepily into Steve, of all people, and Steve lets out a laugh as he catches Clint.

James is pissed.

He flees to the gym before anyone has a chance to comment on it, punches a hole right through a boxing bag. Sand flies everywhere, and he's left there heaving, unsure of what to do with himself. In the end, he makes his way back into his room.

He's surprised to find Clint curled up in the middle of the bed, Steve nowhere in sight. His thoughts are all over the place, and he grabs a shower, trying to calm them down. There is no explanation for his outburst, none for the relief of having Clint for himself. It's a possessiveness that startles James, but he can't, for the life of him, pinpoint its origin.

With a sigh, he slides under the covers facing Clint, wraps an arm around him. Clint's eyes blink open, and he shuffles closer on the pillow.

"What took you so long?" he murmurs and James has no answer.

Instead, he gives into the urge to press his lips onto Clint's forehead. When he leans back, Clint is already asleep. James pulls him in, listens to his even breathing for a long while before sleep sneaks up on him as well.

Morning finds him no closer to an answer, but more attached to Clint than ever. It's scaring him. Scrawny Steve going to war levels of scary.

~

An early afternoon, James sits next to Clint in the conference room where they've pinned up all evidence of the case. Photos and notes adorn an entire side of the room. They're sitting across from it, on a table pushed against the wall.

Clint pulls his knees to his chest, wiggles his bare toes that peek out from under the edges of his sweatpants, and James leans back, rests an elbow on his own bent knee, his other leg dangling off the edge. It's quiet and pleasant and warming.

"The city in flames," Clint whispers, "people screaming, torn apart, blood everywhere."

James looks at him then, breath frozen in his chest. Is this...

"That's what I'm dreaming. Loki winning."

It is.

James draws air shakily.

"And it's always my fault," Clint continues, voice wobbly, "because I was such a good little soldier, so obedient, so docile."

He looks up, staring unseeing somewhere ahead, most likely reliving those days, and it stabs at James, because... because...

"I was all that," James rasps.

Clint swallows, looks at him with a nod, but his eyes hold no accusation, no fear. He grabs at James' hand between them, fingers closing around metal, the pressure sensors reading how tightly he's gripping. It would be painful if his hand were flesh and bone. James' heart slows almost to a stop, but then flickers back in a frenzy, beating fast against his ribs.

Clint understands.

Not even Steve gets it, and James has tried explaining, as much as he could.

To be death. To be destruction. It's crippling.

A shift, and Clint brings their hands up, presses his lips against the back of James' hand. "Thank you," he says, turning a smile at James, and then he scoots closer, intertwines his fingers with the metal ones. He wraps James' arm around his shoulder, curls up against him.

And James... James tries to keep his breaths even, overwhelming sensations flooding him. It's too much to untangle right now, too many things poking at his mind, so he pushes it all away, choosing to focus on Clint's warmth against his side, the way his fingertips run along the edges of the metal plates of his forearm.

There's something, though, right on the tip of James' tongue, something he should say right now. But the words are elusive, and he doesn't feel up to chasing them. Instead, he rests his cheek on the top of Clint's head, drawing a small sigh out of him. This is good, and the minutes stretch out quietly with the movement of the shadows cast by the afternoon sun as its light sifts through the windows.

"Look," Clint says suddenly, raising to his feet.

He walks fast to the far wall, picks up two photos pinned in opposite corners. James follows, looks at them when Clint places them on one of the other tables there.

"These pieces of debris, they have the same shape."

It's true. Huh. "How could they have broken off exactly the same?" James asks and Clint shrugs.

"Let's see if there are any others."

They start going through the pictures, inspecting them from up close, then from far away. It's painstakingly slow, but they manage to find plenty more, various bits of plastic and cloth and paper ripped apart in identical shapes, some at the same location, some at different crime scenes.

"JARVIS," Clint asks, "can you call Tony and Bruce in here?"

~

Three days later, everyone is summoned down to Tony's lab. Bruce keeps rubbing his eyes, and Tony is slurping something green and no doubt disgusting through a straw.

On the monitor behind them, a drawing is displayed, and it looks like a shattering sheet of glass, cracks starting from a central point, to spread out in a pattern outwards. Oh, the small bits between the web of lines look just like the shapes James and Clint had found in the photos.

"They're using some sort of device that creates vibrations," Tony explains. "We don't know how they manage to concentrate and direct them in this shape," he points at the screen, "but that's what they're doing."

"Wait," Steve says, eyebrow knitted in a frown, "I've seen this before. There were fissures in the wallpaper at one of the old shops downtown, the one with the donuts. I thought it was on purpose, ran from the floor to the ceiling."

A beat, and Tony turns to Bruce. "You don't think--"

"Could be."

They're being waved off soon after.

Clint grins at James as they make their way to the elevator, bumps their shoulders.

"We cracked the case, literally," Clint cackles and Steve laughs from where he's walking behind them.

"It was all Clint," James says.

"Leave it to Clint to break things," comes next from Natasha, and James shares her amused smirk.

"Yeah yeah," Clint waves both hands, but he's laughing.

He has a very nice laugh, James finds, and his chest fills with something tight and pleasant and warm.

~

It seems that the culprits are using the device to pass through walls and floors, vibrating the materials so that they match the frequency of a human's movement. If they turn it toward anything thinner, the objects shatter.

When the next call comes, the team is ready and they all go out, minus Bruce who thinks it would be too irritating for the Other guy.

It's a bunch of angry kids, trying to get revenge on various people who've wronged them. James gets it, but that doesn't excuse the damages they've left behind, the way they've spun the city in a whirlwind of fear.

It boils down to a gun fight, the four kids shooting randomly and chaotically enough that it's difficult for the Avengers to get close. And then, one of them turns the vibration device toward Tony. He is propelled away, the suit shattering around him, and it's Sam's catch that saves him from hitting the asphalt. Luckily, Tony's just sore, but he's swearing worse than a sailor.

The device needs securing first and foremost, James agrees with Steve.

Everything happens too fast after that. One moment they're approaching, dodging stray bullets, while Hawkeye keeps the kids busy with arrows, and the next, James is knocked to the ground. The device goes off. James lunges toward Clint, but he's too slow.

Someone is screaming, loudly in his ears, and James' hands shake as they clutch onto Clint's shoulders. His throat hurts, but Clint is unmoving and something screams raw and painful and crawling up his chest.

Clint's eyes are open and lifeless, his skin darkening in the pattern of the cracks.

"Gotta let him go," Steve says, closer and further and sound stretches.

No.

No, he can't. It can't.

"You gotta get some rest, come on."

He grips tighter to Clint's hand, but his fingers slide into the tender flesh, blood dripping between metal.

Something screams.

"James."

Something rips him from the inside.

"James, please. Open your eyes."

Clint.

Harsh light stabs into his pupils and James has to blink fast to keep the blinding pain at bay.

Clint is here.

"Yeah, that's it," Clint breathes, his face wet.

James opens his mouth, but no sound comes from his throat.

"Shh," Clint says, "don't try to speak. You've screamed yourself hoarse," he sniffles, fresh tears falling from his eyes.

What is going on?

"Fucking idiot," Clint mumbles. "Don't fucking jump in front of an alien weapon like that, asshole."

Oh. He hasn't been too slow. A smile pulls at his lips, but it hurts his face.

Clint wipes at his cheeks with his sleeve around a choked half laugh. "You got hit by the vibration thing," he manages. "You're in the tower, infirmary, been out for two days. You had some ruptured tissue in your organs, so don't try to move too much." Clint inhales with a sniffle. "You're lucky it only grazed you. It hit you worst in the arm though."

James looks down then, and there are plates askew along the outer side, but the structure beneath them seems still intact.

"I don't know what the fuck they used to build that thing, but it's apparently more dense than a wall."

It pulls a snort out of James and that hurts everywhere.

A straw comes near his lips, and he drinks, grateful. Clint turns back to him after he puts the cup away, and pushes James' hair from his forehead. His fingers are trembling, and why would they...

"I'm gonna do something," Clint breathes. "Don't kill me later, ok?"

His lips are chapped and hot, too dry, but they are on James' and it's incredible. His heart flutters with the touch, warmth seeping into him from all sides.

Yes. _Yes. This_.

But Clint is gone too soon. With one last look at James, he turns to Steve's sleeping form slumped over in a chair.

~

It takes almost a week for the serum to mend his body. Meanwhile, Tony fixes his arm. Some movements feel even better, smoother than before, the sensors more precise in their readings. He can't find Clint anywhere, not that he's been too mobile. But as soon as he can walk, he searches. Natasha assures him Clint's still in the tower, though, so James waits until he's up to his usual strength before starting a thorough sweep.

Clint is sitting on one of the rafters of the range, legs on either side of the metal beam, staring at his clutched hands in front of him. He tenses when James climbs up, matching his position, but doesn't look up. Still, James can see the dark circles around his eyes, his skin too pale, his body too still. Hasn't he gotten any sleep the past week?

James opens his mouth to ask just that. "I need you," comes out instead. Just as well, it's the truth anyway.

Clint looks at him then, startled.

"I also need you to need me," he adds, moves a hand closer to Clint's, hooks his index finger around one of Clint's thumbs.

The harsh breath Clint sucks in is the only thing that breaks the silence. And James waits, lets it sink in.

"I do," Clint says eventually. There's a sort of sadness taking over him, and he looks away from James again. "But I don't think the way I need you is same way as you need me."

"Which is what?"

Clint's mouth works wordlessly, but he ends up just shaking his head. James' heart rabbits in his chest. Well, if he's wrong, the worst Clint can do is tip him over, and he can land safely from this distance. So he grips at the beam, slides himself closer until their knees touch.

He takes one of Clint's hands in his flesh one, leans closer.

"Right now I need you to kiss me," he breathes, "then to come have dinner with me. Maybe next week we can go dancing, or to the movies. I need you to spend your nights with me, and I'm pretty sure I never had sex with a man before, but I need that, too, with you."

As he speaks, Clint looks at him with growing wonder brightening his face, until a smile lifts the corners of his mouth. James matches it, and Clint closes the distance between them.

His lips are still chapped, still hot, but they linger. He tastes like comfort and purple flower magnets and life.

Clint shifts again, but only to shuffle closer, hooking his legs over James' thighs until they're flush together. James wraps both arms around him, just as Clint does the same. He holds on tightly, face pressed into Clint's neck, and the frantic motion of his heart tapers into slow, heavy beats. It overflows, a sense of immense satisfaction, infused with warmth.

"Haven't had sex with a man, either," Clint says with a huff of laughter against James' shoulder.

"I'm sure we'll figure it out."

"Yeah."

~

That night, after they slide under the covers, Clint turns to him, runs his hands through James' hair. He's silent for a long time, but there's clearly something he wants to say, so James waits him out, enjoying the caresses.

"Remember these coordinates," Clint says, and then recites the string of numbers.

"Got it," James nods. "What's there?"

Clint licks his lips, swallows.

"It's where I go to hide," he whispers.

And this, this is Clint naked and vulnerable. James leans forward, catches his lips, then moves to press as many pecks as he can on the side of his face, his temple, his nose.

Clint squirms with a laugh, wraps himself around James, entangles their legs. James smiles at him, and Clint places another kiss on his mouth.

"You have a very beautiful smile," Clint says, running his thumb along the edge of James' lower lip, almost reverently.

James would beg to differ, but the way Clint looks at him, it stops the words in his throat, until they're all forgotten, unnecessary and obsolete.

Clint understands. James cherishes.

~End~


End file.
